


Come All This Way (To Say Goodbye)

by purnell (domestichesters)



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:49:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7743997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domestichesters/pseuds/purnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Pathfinder doesn't work and Mark has no way to communicate with NASA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and i think it's gonna be a long, long time- Mark POV

Log Entry: Sol 97

 

So _Pathfinder_ didn't work.

Yeah. So... yeah.

 

* * *

 

Mark takes his hands from the keyboard. He stares off at nothing, tears breaking free and trailing droplets down his pale cheeks. A few minutes pass, and the computer switches to screensaver mode, a picture of his crew filling the screen. He turns and when he sees it he bites back a pained cry and ducks his head between his knees.

"Shit," he whispers. His voice breaks and he stumbles down from the chair, drags his socked feet along the floor as he wanders, hardly looking where he's going. He winds up in lab 2.

For a long time he stares at Beck's med bay. He can hear only his breathing and the whirring of machines working to keep him alive. Working themselves past their expiration dates to keep a good-as-dead man alive.

Before he can stop himself he punches the countertop. Again and again and again. His knuckles bleed and pain eats away at his fists until he goes numb, and he slides down to a sitting position against the cabinets. His whole body shakes and blood stains the sleeves of his shirt and he's so tired, so tired, tired of living and breathing in this stupid fucking deathtrap of a home on this barren hellhole of a planet. "Fuck you!" he yells. "Fuck you and your fucking red dirt and your fucking distance from Earth and your stupid fucking storms!"

Somehow, yelling isn't satisfying. He draws his knees in and holds them there with one hand. He uses the other to open a drawer behind his head and pull out what he knows is a vial of morphine (he's considered this enough times to know its rounded edges, tucked in front by the rubber gloves).

He brings it to eye level and keeps it there. Seconds turn to minutes and minutes to hours. The morphine taunts him. _I can end it now,_ _Mark,_ it says. _All this can be behind you._

He stares for so long its color becomes a blur and his feelings say take it all and his logic says take it all and everything in him says take it all but for a voice small, clamoring to be heard over the others, the voice that's filled with whatever remnant of hope left unburnt inside him. _Not so fast,_ it says. _Not so fast._ He falls asleep, briefly, and when he wakes he sees the translucent curtain behind which his potatoes grow. The vial of morphine fell from his fingers while he slept, but thankfully remains intact beside him. He doesn't notice, though. Instead he stands and walks on shaking legs, opens the curtain and looks inside. At the potatoes he brought into the world. Life on Mars.

 

* * *

 

Log Entry: Sol 97 (2)

 

I'm back. I feel a little better. I caught a half hour or so of sleep, and did some yelling and punching. You know, the usual I-have-no-hope-for-communication-and-I'm-stuck-on-a-deserted-planet stuff.

Like I said earlier, _Pathfinder_ 's fried. Completely out of commission. I really really really don't feel like describing the implications of that conclusion any further. I'm sure you can understand. Point is, I won't be making contact with NASA any time soon. 

Here's what I'm thinking:

They might now I'm alive. See, Kapoor has to have asked for satellite time to check out Arcadia. Technically, our mission was scrapped after only six days, and with me "dead" there's over half a mission's worth of supplies down here. Venkat wouldn't let that go to waste. So maybe they know. 

There's a chance I'm wrong. For one, I doubt Teddy "anything to avoid a PR problem" Sanders would be happy pointing cameras at the Ares Three Site, because whatever pictures they took would feature my very dead body. And even if he did grant satellite time, I'm not out and about 24/7, so they could've missed me. 

My hope is they'd notice that the solar panels are cleaned of soil, or the rovers have been moved. Or, you know, the notable absence of my corpse. 

So for the sake of my sanity, and my plan, let's say he gave Kapoor satellite time, and NASA knows I'm alive.

That means I've got a giant team of supernerds on Earth working together to save my ass. Sure, I can't talk to them, but if they know I'm alive that's more than enough. They could be working on a resupply probe at this very moment.

Best case scenario: The resupply comes before I run out of rations, and I've got plenty for my journey to Schiaparelli.

And worst case: There's no resupply, either it breaks or just isn't part of the plan, and I have to stretch my rations like crazy for the next four years.

I'm playing it safe. Already I've cut my rations down to a little under a healthy minimum calorie count, and I might have to go even lower, depending on how this plays out.

So... yeah, that's the situation.

No hope for communication. I'm surviving on a dangerous if not fatal calorie intake and I have no plan that doesn't entirely revolve around the survival of my potatoes, NASA knowing I'm alive, and JPL's ability to get a resupply probe here before I starve to death. 

But there's a fighting chance, and that's all I need! If I can hold onto the image of future me, off of Mars, free from the horror that is disco music, I think I might be able to pull through! 

Signing off, 

Mark Watney

 

* * *

 

Mark sits in the dirt, potato plants surrounding him so he's nearly immersed in green. He takes a bite of cereal and looks around.

"Hey Jeffrey," he says to a particularly tall one a few rows down, through a mouthful of Frosted Flakes. "Luna. Wes. Quinn. How's everyone?"

The plants say nothing, and he makes a face that's half-grin half-grimace. He's perfectly aware of how insane he sounds but he doesn't care. He'll talk to the fucking plants if he damn well pleases.

"You guys want some music?" he asks. "Unfortunately, I've only got disco, but... hey, it's something."

He brings his laptop in a few minutes later and plays music from Lewis's drive. He's done with his breakfast so he sits and listens and as much as he hates it, he likes the voices. Human voices that aren't his own.

"Awful, right?" he says to the plants. "Sorry. Blame Lewis. It's all we've got."

 _I was cheerful, bright and gay_  
_Looking forward to who wouldn't do_  
_The role I was about to play_  
_But as if to knock me down_  
_Reality came around_  
_And without so much as a mere touch_  
_Cut me into little pieces_  
_Leaving me to doubt_  
_Talk about, God in His mercy_

"Isn't this song just peachy? Hey, Jeffrey, no slouching! Set a good example for the little guys."

Jeffrey doesn't stop slouching, so Mark prods him with his shoe.

"Who's gonna make me the most potatoes, do you think?" he asks the room. "My bet's on Fernando. Oh, what's that, Sam? You're thinking Rose? Ah, I don't know, she might have it in her. Guess we'll have to wait and see."

Mark stops the music with his knuckle and sighs, puts his head in his hands. "Fuck. I'm talking to plants." He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes and then looks up, hoists his laptop to his waist and stands. "Sorry guys. A day of wallowing in my own misery awaits me."

He remembers on Hermes Martinez made fun of him for talking to plants. Mark used to do it for fun and because some part of him way deep down was convinced plants had feelings, and he only ever did it sporadically when he felt like there was something that had to be said. But now he does it even when it doesn't matter, even when there's no point, because they're the only other living things on the planet and they're the only things keeping him from falling into a pit of loneliness with walls too high to climb out. 

 

* * *

 

Mars is so... red.

Red. Red red red red red and more red.

Mars is an ocean and Mark can't stop drowning. Sometimes he swims and the shore's in sight, but a wave knocks him over and when he pulls up, breathing hard, he's back where he started. Alone. Stranded. Kicking hard with exhausted feet to keep his head out of water.

He looks out and there's nothing.

As far as the eye can see, a vast ocean of red, except this ocean is still. This ocean does not ripple or rise, it stays put, its wave-like dunes merely mocking Mark, who stands just in front of the only thing that doesn't blend with the monochrome landscape.

There is no wind, not even the slightest hint of it. Everything is quiet, still, and he stands and waits for something he knows will never happen. He looks out at the red and imagines it is really like an ocean, imagines the waves of sand ascending and then crashing down upon him, swallowing him whole. Wouldn't be so bad.

 

* * *

 

Some days he goes out and stares at _Pathfinder_ for so long his eyes burn.

"Work. Work! Work, you useless fucking machine," he says. Then he looks down at his hands and mumbles, "I'm sorry. Didn't mean that."

He doesn't know what to do with himself. Once in a while he sleeps in so late he doesn't have to worry about rationing breakfast, sometimes lunch. Time leaves him behind and he's lost track of days and occasionally he'll lose track of sols. 

Stuck in a weird in-between place, between anger and depression, between living and getting by, between hope and hopelessness, he does things he doesn't remember. He does things on impulse. He punches walls and cries himself to sleep but he forgets what's real and what's dreamed. Whether he's hoped for something so badly he's fooled himself into believing or he's facing grim reality.

He dons this calm exterior whenever he can. His facade of having himself together, a shield, because if he can pretend he's okay maybe he will be. Maybe he'll think of something, a genius plan, rather than sitting around moping.

"So fucking stupid," he says to himself. He's got his arms crossed. He pinches his skin hard. "Snap out of it."

 _Stop being so sad for yourself,_ a part of him says. _You're so stupid for letting this get to you. You're so stupid you can't come up with a way out of this one because you're too fucking whiny._

He purses his lips and his face contorts with pain and feelings only someone stuck so far away would know.

 

* * *

 

Log Entry: Sol 118

 

I ate fourteen rations for dinner! Not sure what came over me, I just started eating and couldn't stop. I feel full for the first time in forever, and it's a damn good feeling. I know I'll hate myself for this in the morning, but I can't get over how satisfying it is to not feel hungry! My stomach isn't rumbling! I feel like I just ate thanksgiving dinner!

If I ever do get off this planet, though, first thing I'm doing on Earth is going to a steakhouse. Not that space food isn't good but... it's not great. As soon as I'm on Earth, I don't care if I've got to fight off fussy NASA doctors, I don't care if they have to wheel me there, I'm going to a fucking steakhouse and I'm eating half my weight in prime sirloins. 

Anyway, it's been rough. But I'm getting by. I know I'm on Mars, and I'm surrounded by sights only eighteen people have ever seen, but I'm bored out of my mind. I'm almost out of TV shows and I've gone through most of the books, and music-wise Lewis only saved fifty-two songs to her drive. Maybe if she'd saved more it wouldn't be as annoying, but after hearing Turn the Beat Around for the seven-hundredth time I'm tempted to bang my head against the wall. Yeah, yeah, if the worst thing I'm dealing with right now is boredom I'm pretty damn lucky yada yada yada. Until you've been stuck on a deserted planet in a Hab the size of a very small house with nothing but disco and decades-old television, you have no idea just how bored I am when I say "I'm bored." I'm not talking twiddle-my-thumbs I-don't-have-any-plans-today boredom. No, I'm talking all-consuming, stuck-on-Mars boredom. The kind of boredom that gives me too much time to think about how hungry I am and how hopeless my situation is and how even if I do go home I'll probably be in a wheelchair all my life. Yeah. I'm bored.

I hope the crew's okay. And my family. And all my friends back home. I can't imagine what they're going through, whether they know I'm alive or not. 

My dreams have been really vivid lately. Most of the time they're good, which is almost worse because when I wake up reality hits me like a sack of bricks. I dream that I'm on Earth, or on Hermes, and I'm surrounded by the people I love and care about. Oh, and sometimes Martinez is there too. A couple nights ago I had a dream where I was with my parents and my mom made me some pasta and sat there with her hand on my shoulder, and it felt so real until I woke up and it wasn't. That was a fun surprise.

I don't know. What else...? My potatoes are growing well! I got my hand stuck in the coffee machine earlier. I took the rover for a drive. No reason behind it, I just wanted out. I reopened one of the cuts on my knuckle (from punching various pieces of Hab furniture) and now there's a bloodstain on my comforter I can't wash out. That's it, I think. You're all caught up. I'm gonna go stare at a wall for a few hours. Woo-hoo. The thrilling life of an interplanetary voyager

Fun fact: when my third grade teacher asked me why I wanted to be an astronaut, I said Earth was boring. The irony of this hasn't escaped me. 

 

* * *

 

"What am I to you guys?" he asks his potato plants. "Am I the weird uncle? Nah. No, I'm the dad right? I'm totally the dad." He assumes a superman position. "I'm Martian Potato Dad."

He walks the rows carefully, inspecting each plant. "I... really miss Earth," he says quietly. "You guys haven't seen Earth, have you? You're missing out. Picture a world filled with people, like me, but less cool, and plants that are green like you, but also all sorts of different colors. A whole rainbow of colors. Picture- well, see my brown shoe? Picture dirt this color, rather than the weird off-red of Mars. And mountains. You've never seen mountains. Mountains and rivers and... did I mention people earlier? I must have. But that's important. Other people. You're all Martians, so you're accustomed to a world of just you guys and me, and I know I'm great and all but there are so many- so many other great people too. People with different personalities and different lives and, you know, people who care. I know it's hard to imagine, but it doesn't matter, I'm just talking. Just get the most beautiful thing you can in your non-existent heads and that's as close as you'll get. Mars is nice for a quick vacation, I guess, not that I'd call this a vacation but anyway, there's no place like home. That's from a movie. Can't think of the name right now, actually. What the... fuck? That's a popular movie, too. Judy Garland's in it. Look it up. Not that you have hands. But it'd be damn cute if you tried to type with your leaves."

 

* * *

 

The airlock blows. Mark stands there for so long cursing the world and cursing himself and cursing everything. "You know what!? Fuck this! Fuck this airlock, fuck that Hab, and fuck this whole planet! Seriously, this is it! I've had it! I've got a few minutes before I run out of air and I'll be damned if I spend them playing Mars's little game. I'm so god damned sick of it I could puke! All I have to do is sit here. The air will leak out and I'll die. I'll be done. No more getting my hopes up, no more self-delusion, and no more problem-solving. I've fucking had it!" he yells. He wants to curl up and die right there, but he doesn't. Instinct takes over. Adrenaline in his veins.

 

* * *

 

His potato plants are dead. All of them. The potatoes pulled from them are fine but the plants are gone.

When he comes back, much later, after he's covered the hole and screamed for a long time at the top of his lungs, after he's punched the walls and the counter and kicked too, after bending over where his potato plants had been and sobbing, he goes over and takes out the morphine pills.

He unscrews the lid.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I wrote and rewrote the log entries but I can't quite get them in character. It's tough capturing his voice in first person, especially when I'm not particularly science-y myself. But there will be more chapters! Some will focus on Mark, some on the Ares crew, and some on the good folks at NASA. I really hope you enjoyed :)


	2. well now, i get low and i get high- NASA POV

Mindy hasn't left the building in four days. Four days of staring at a screen waiting for an astronaut she's never met to do something, anything. There's the occasional bathroom break, the walks to and from the coffee machine or the snack table, two hour naps on the couch in the hall, but for the most part she's been stewing in her seat watching, waiting, hoping.

Four days of waiting and hoping and watching and her eyes are sore. Her whole body's cramped up, but she can't leave. She gets new imagery every few minutes from the satellites aimed at Arcadia, and for the most part she's glancing at the same picture over and over and nothing's changed. She emails the higher ups and tells them "no change", then sits back and waits for more. "No change." Pause. New images. "No change." Pause. New images. "No change."

They put her in charge of satellites, Lord knows why, so by default she's in charge of watching him. For the past few months she's logged his movements, recorded any change and emailed out detailed reports based on her findings, with the images attached. But for the past few months she's been able to leave. She went home while he was sure to be sleeping and looked over the images when her shift resumed. But now, since the Airlock blew, she's stuck looking for him at all hours.

He hasn't left the Hab. That's the problem. And Annie's up her ass about it when she forgets to email out a "no change" report. _Did he move? Is he out? Send images ASAP if anything's changed._

Mindy gets it. Annie deals with media and press, and everyone wants to know where's Watney and what's he doing and why hasn't he left the Hab in four days. Reporters are driving Annie up the wall, but Mindy doesn't know how to help. All she can do is look at satellite imagery and send emails and deliver news no one wants to hear.

"Come on, Mark," Mindy whispers. "Just show us you're okay."

Night and day, Mindy stares. Waits. Because he hasn't been seen in four days, what's to say he won't come out when she goes home to sleep or when she runs down to Starbucks for something decent, a descriptor that can't be applied to SatCom coffee. It's not like she expects him to do anything, and she knows if she goes home she'll come back and there's a good chance nothing will have changed, but she's hoping her position as space paparazzi will be a stepping stone to bigger and better things (with bigger and better paychecks), so she can't afford to lose it. She gets her two hour naps but that's it, no leaving or she's off the job.

Venkat sympathizes with her. He brings her meals when he can. The day after the Airlock blow when Mark's disappearance became a concern, he sat in the conference room with Annie and Teddy and asked how long Arcadia required 24 hour surveillance, and why did Mindy have to do it all.

"Until Watney shows us he's okay, we need eyes on the Hab 24/7," Teddy said.

"Okay, but what makes you think something's wrong?" Annie asked. "Because- I've got a conference in twenty and if this is a cause for concern-"

"All we know right now is he rolled the airlock, and the fact that he hasn't been seen since is distressing."

"He's probably just recovering. I mean... what are you thinking?"

"I don't know about you, but after everything he's been through I know I'd be feeling pretty suicidal. And he's got plenty of morphine."

Annie raised a hand to cover her mouth. "The morphine," she whispers. "Damn it. I forgot about the morphine."

Venkat sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing the FaceTime pulled up on Annie's phone, Mindy silent on the other end. "But why Mindy? She's already working long shifts as it is, and-"

"She knows this job better than anyone else. She knows Watney's patterns, she knows what to look for."

"At least up her paycheck."

Mindy looked from Venkat to Teddy, crossing her fingers under the table.

After a long pause, Teddy consented. "Fine. 10% pay raise."

So now Mindy has extra cause to be here. Money and the fact that the actual fucking director of NASA thinks she's best for the job.

Her computer lights up, and she waits for the images to load before zooming in. Nothing, nothing, then... she blinks, taken aback. Something's changed. The rovers have actually moved. Her body wakes up. She shoves her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and pulls out her phone, while at the same time attaching the images to an email and sending them straight to Annie. She can't keep herself from smiling when Venkat picks up.

"He's moving!"

 

* * *

 

"As of 4:37 PM this afternoon, yes, it would appear that Mark Watney is okay," Annie says. She bites her tongue, curses herself inwardly. Okay is a no-no word, along with fine, good, and safe. These words imply that she actually fucking knows, and she knows jackshit. All anyone knows, really, is he moved a rover. Saying he's okay implies he's okay, while in reality he could be on the verge of death and no one would have a clue.

"What do you think he was doing all this time?"

"We are still unsure."

"What's he doing now?"

"We're working on figuring that out."

"Is he physically healthy?"

 _For fuck's sake, the satellite picture's about as clear as the Citarum River, and you want to know if he's healthy? Look at the picture. It's right there on the board. Do you see him? Because I sure as hell don't. And I've answered this question three times already. Where the hell have you been? I wish I knew. Really. I knew him and I wish I could stand up here and tell you he's ridiculously fucking healthy, but I can't, and I wish I could tell you more. I wish I knew more. I wish he could stand up here and tell you himself._ She bites back these words and says instead, "We have no way of knowing."

 

* * *

 

Venkat stops by and plops down in the seat next to Mindy, rolls his chair over and looks at the screen. "How's it going?"

"Good. He's moving, so, that's a plus."

"What's he doing?"

Mindy rubs the bridge of her nose and clicks on an open tab. "I was... just about to send these. It looks like he's doing something to the rovers... like, completely gouging one."

"Gouging?"

"Look."

Venkat squints at the screen. "Any idea what he's doing?"

Mindy shrugs and opens her email to forward the images to Annie. "I've got a guess."

"Shoot."

She squirms and she clicks around with the mouse. "I don't...."

"What?"

"I don't want to be right."

Venkat stares at her for a minute, while she types up a report to match the image, before clicking send. "Mindy, what is it?"

Mindy sighs. "Nothing. It's nothing."

Venkat quiets and looks at the pictures until new ones come through. Then his eyes widen, and his breath seems to lull. "You don't think he's...?"

Mindy gives a small nod. "I think so. Maybe."

A long pause. Mindy's eyelids droop. "Why?" Venkat asks, suddenly, voice piercing the quiet.

Mindy snaps awake and rests her head on her palm. "He's alone... tired, scared, probably. I don't know."

"Did you ever meet him? Before the launch, I mean." Venkat looks far off, eyes focused on some great unknown something, a memory Mindy doesn't know.

"I didn't, no."

"I did. Obviously. He was- is- is is is- a resilient guy. Funny. Charming."

All Mindy can manage is, "Oh."

"I can't imagine... how do I explain this to you? You've never met him. He was always smiling, Mindy. Always. Laughing and joking and horsing around. The fact that this is ever a possibility is just, hard to comprehend."

Mindy doesn't know what to do. It's funny, she's been watching the guy for months but she doesn't know anything about him, really. Her entire life right now is Mark Watney this and Mark Watney that, but who is Mark Watney, anyway? An entity. The figure of a man. An astronaut stuck on Mars without a face.

"He would've liked you," Venkat murmurs. "That dry sense of humor you've got."

"Maybe I'll meet him, eventually."

Venkat says, "Maybe," with a voice damp with sadness and oozing the feeling that this word means nothing, that to him this maybe isn't meant to be a maybe in this life but a maybe in the next one. Mindy can hear it, whether or not Venkat can himself. The feeling of hopelessness everyone's got perched in their guts, its wings expanding until it's too big, and its feathers of worry spill free and become all-consuming. The feeling that no one wants to share because putting feeling to the tongue makes it real. So they surpress it and make themselves think sure, maybe Mark will live, maybe he'll come home and they'll meet, Mindy and him, and they'll have a grand time and things will be fine and things will go on. Maybe maybe maybe. A world of maybes spun into lies.

"Maybe," Mindy agrees.

"Don't tell Annie just yet," Venkat says. His voice cracks. He stands up and adjusts his suit, gives her shoulder a pat as he brushes past. "Wouldn't want to give her a heart attack until we're sure."

"So as long as we're sure, giving her a heart attack is a-okay?"

Venkat smirks. "You know what I mean."

"Not sure I do."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for length! i'm anxious to get on to crew and mark chapters! but this was fun and i love writing mindy scenes, like. a lot. please enjoy! thanks for reading! new chapter should be up soon-ish


	3. he walks through his sunken dream- Mark POV

Log entry: Sol 124

I did everything I could. If someone finds these logs later, please know I tried. I really did. I tried so hard, but Mars kicked my ass and that's that.

I'm not giving up because I'm not willing to try, I'm giving up because there's nothing else I can do. I'm sick of hoping and giving everything my all when no matter what I do, I get screwed over. And fact of the matter is, NASA probably doesn't know I'm alive. That resupply's never coming and if I stay here I'm sentencing myself to two years of loneliness, two years of mostly potatoes, two years of disco, and two years of suffering where at the end of it all, I'll die from hunger or thirst or maybe I'll inject myself with a lethal dose of morphine and get offed that way.

I've thought about this a lot. Don't think I'm acting impulsively. I've considered my future, and this is the only thing that makes sense. On the off-chance NASA knows I'm alive, a  resupply probe couldn't get here for a long, long time. And unless they've discovered some super fast bionic rocket fuel in these past few months, by the time that thing gets here I'll be long dead. My best guess is the resupply probe could make it here, at its earliest, between sol 350-380. My food supply should run out around sol 300. That's also because I'm a big dumbass, and for about ten sols I stopped giving a shit and ate as much as I wanted to.

No hope for me, that's for damn sure.

So, dear reader: I may be an asshole, but don't you dare accuse me of not trying hard enough. I've tried myself into exhaustion. I've tried myself through the past 124 sols, and I'm tired, okay? I just want to talk to someone again before I die.

That's the goal. I'm going to fix up the rover, travel to Schiaparelli, and talk. At least this way when I die, I won't feel so entirely alone.

So that's it! If you're reading these after I died in a horrible something or other on my way to Schiaparelli, I'm so sorry you're reading these instead of... well anything other than the final log entires of a dead man.

I know I should be upset, but the idea of talking to people is overshadowing literally every bad feeling I've got. I'm so excited to talk to my crew and my family and to find out how they're doing. I think I've gotten to the point where the chance to communicate with anyone is a chance I'm willing to take, no matter the consequences. In this case, the consequence is death. But I'd die anyway, so there you have it.

Time to go work on the rover. Logistically, fitting everything keeping me alive in here, in there, is going to be nearly impossible. I think I can figure it out. I just need a week or so, then I'm on the road. Or whatever the Martian equivalent is. A desert. That's it: as soon as I finish my rover mods, I'll hit the desert.

 

* * *

 

Mark talks to himself while he works. Sometimes just math, talking himself through the calculations of everything he's doing, but sometimes he talks to himself when there's no math or science involved.

While drilling holes through the roof, he says, "Right there. Right there." He can't get the drill where he wants it. "God damn it, Mark, what are you doing? What the fuck is that? Who raised you? There you go, right there. Was that so hard? Years of astronaut training and I don't think I ever considered I'd be drilling holes in the roof of a rover. They didn't even teach me how. Punks. If I make it to Schiaparelli, I'm sending NASA a message specifically about starting up a drilling holes in your rover class, because it's fucking hard. And if another person gets left on Mars, maybe they could use it. Couldn't hurt, right?"

 

* * *

 

Log Entry: Sol 130

Brilliant idea. "Surviving on Mars for Dummies" by Mark Watney. Like a syllabus of all the horrors I've faced so far. How to deal with the loss of your beloved potatoes. How to listen to disco and only disco for an extended period of time. How to drill holes in the roof of your rover. How to cook a potato about four thousand different ways.

If I weren't so tired, I'd totally write it. Whatever, I'll recommend it to the NASA execs if I make it to Schiaparelli. I'll tell them my dying wish is for them to write this book, and if they don't I'll come back and haunt their asses. That'll scare them.

Anyway, rover mods are taking longer than expected. Will update later.

 

* * *

 

Mark takes enough food to last him the journey. He doesn't bother to take all of it, just enough to last the journey and then a few sols extra. He writes on some of the packets. Happy Still-On-Mars Day. Halfway There. Happy Talk To Friends And Family Day.

The Hab's his home. He walks around it for a while and thinks of all the things it's seen. Thinks of the safety it holds and it's his last real home. His last real chance to feel safe. He snatches a few pictures from the walls. Goes through his crewmates boxes and feeling only the smallest amount of shame smells their clothes. The smell of other people and memories he's forgetting. He pulls on someone's hoodie—probably Martinez's, since it's so big—and huddles on his bunk. He curls up and pretends he's napping and he's a kid again, his mom waking him up for school. He pretends it's Sol 5 and Lewis wants him to get up and he's grumbling because it's so early, give me a minute, I'm so tired. Voices and people and—he stops himself and rolls onto his back.

"Stop it. Stop it. You're alone."

The Hab is quiet. He wanders and thinks of his lasts. This is his last time in bed. This is his last time sitting in a rolling chair. This is his last time walking around in regular clothes.

He wishes he'd known when he last saw his mother and father and when he last saw his crew. He wishes he'd known and he wishes he'd said something. But wishing doesn't solve problems. He cries and his tears are facts, each one something he's never done or something he'll never get to do again.

When he says goodbye, and the Hab's walls become past tense, he keeps himself from looking as he drives. Don't look. Don't look. The last place you'll ever think of as home. It kept him safe and it kept him alive and it provided something in a world of death and red.

Don't look. Don't look.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so short ahh im sorry! but here. it's all i've got time for with school stuff. next chapter should be longer :)


	4. dialed about a thousand numbers lately

  
"No contact?"

Annie looks down at the piece of paper she holds in her hands, a short progress report from NASA, and clears her throat. She skims the sheet, hoping to see something's changed even though she's read it at least five times and knows the answer. The reports haven't changed much, lately. At the top are Watney's coordinates, and at the bottom, the words stay the same. Contact: None. Food Supply: Unknown. Personal Health: Unknown. Survival Plan: Unknown. She knows these things anyway, given the amount of time she spends with other NASA employees, but they still give her the reports to make sure she doesn't fumble. Not that she would. Annie Montrose doesn't fumble. "No. No contact." She wishes she could say Not yet, wishes she could give the people something, but she can't. The only thing worse than not giving them any hope at all is dangling it in front of them before yanking it away.

She remembers a time when she didn't care. Remembers when her days and weeks weren't entirely devoted to delivering bad news about an astronaut stranded on a deserted planet to the masses. She used to take her job as a challenge, as a way to play with words and deliver them with the right infliction, in a way which might lessen the blow of each piece of news that might otherwise cause problems. Now, she considers her job a burden, day after day twisting words to make bad news seem less bad.

"Are you working on something?"

She's gotten this question countless times over the past few months, and she's given just about every answer she can give. She's running out of excuses. "We're... working on it," is what she goes with, this time. Shit, if she had a dollar for every time she's said We're working on it, she'd be rich enough to move to the country and forget about Mark Watney and NASA and public fucking relations.

"Miss Montrose! Isn't it true that if no contact is established, he'll die?"

Annie sighs. Her head aches, and her eyes are incredibly heavy. These past few months have been hard on her, too (although she tries not to complain, given Watney has it worse). She gets the same questions over and over, and each time she has to look people in the eye and sugarcoat the fact that they'll likely never establish contact with Watney, and he'll probably die. She knows how she comes off. She knows she portrays an outward appearance of being rather heartless, or, if not heartless, merely lacking empathy. But despite her outward facade, she has a heart, and she feels things. She knew Mark, a little, before he left for Mars. It hurts her to think about him being all alone up there, and it hurts her to think of him dying, and it really hurts her to deliver this news to a public that's largely rooting for him. She leans towards the mic and says, "That's not necessarily true, no."

The people in the audience blink up at her, and she resists the urge to wipe sweat from her brow. "He may have a plan we don't know of," she finishes.

Reporters scramble for her attention. Loudest of them all is a short woman in the back row. "Is he still traveling to Schiaparelli Crater?"

Annie likes these sorts of questions. Ones she can answer with a simple yes or no. They make her job a lot easier. "Yes," she says, feeling completely honest for the first time since she stepped up to the mic.

"What do you believe is his intention once he reaches Schiaparelli?"

Annie recalls one of her first conferences after the news of Watney's journey to Schiaparelli first broke. She was given a script, which she memorized thoroughly. She recites part of it now, "We aren't quite sure what Watney's intentions in this endeavor are. He may be doing this in order to establish communication with us, or he may be doing this as part of a plan that we are still unaware of." The answer feels forced, but it's all she's got. She'd rather feed them a forced answer, in this case, than an honest one, which would sound more like, We believe he's traveling to Schiaparelli because he knows it's over and he wants to talk to someone before he dies. Can't say that at a press conference.

"Is that safe?"

Holy shit, she thinks, performing a mental eye roll, of course it's not fucking safe. He's traveling across Mars in a rover, leaving the only building that offers him any sort of shelter, all to go visit the Ares Four site, when that mission won't even arrive for another four years, and who knows how much food he has. Of course it's not fucking safe.

She takes a breath and answers calmly, "It's a dangerous gamble." This is the standard response to any time someone asks, "Is that safe?" because they get that question a lot, unfortunately. Annie's always tempted to say, "Nothing Mark's doing is safe! Being on Mars in the first place isn't safe!" but she doesn't. She knows better than to take her irritation out on these people who are only looking for answers, knows yelling at people would only make her conscience feel worse.

"How close is he to Schiaparelli?"

"I believe I pointed that out earlier," Annie replies. She gestures to the screen at her right, and points at the dot that represents Watney. "Here's Mark," she says, then draws her finger up to the crater. "And here's Schiaparelli. So he's close."

"Do you know anything of his food supply?"

"No."

"Personal wellbeing?"

"No. But he's clearly healthy enough to drive the rover, and healthy enough to lift and set up the solar panels every day. We don't know more than that."

"Do you know what he's got on the rover with him?"

"We don't know for sure, but we can assume that everything he had in the Hab that kept him alive has been moved to the rover. Otherwise, he wouldn't have lasted this long. So, probably the oxygenator, the water reclaimer, the...." she trails off, eyelids drooping. She snaps awake at the sound of a cough, and gives the audience a nod before taking another question and pretending that didn't happen. Hopefully she won't get too much shit for it. She knows it won't cost her her position, she's the best they have, but she knows as soon as she goes back into the conference room she won't hear the end of it from Teddy.

She continues to answer questions she's answered so many times she doesn't even have to look at the paper. She could answer them in her sleep.

Her last question comes from a man wearing a suit and tie and a reddish beard. He gives her a smile of gratitude when she points to him, and asks a question that jolts her, "Is it possible that he's traveling to Schiaparelli to say his final goodbyes?"

The room quiets. Annie finds herself, for once in her life, completely floored. She has no plan for this, no prepared answer, not even one she can think of one the fly because the question so surprises her. Of course, it's a concept she's thought about. Everyone has. But it's more or less an unspoken truth. They all know what's really happening, that Watney's going to say goodbye, but nobody wants to say it or admit to it. To hear someone speak about it so bluntly shocks her, and makes the idea seem all the more real. She looks at the man and he looks at her, and she tries to formulate an answer but—here's another first—she fumbles. After a few moments, she shakes her head, mutters, "I- it's possible."

She says, "Thanks for your time," before anyone can ask another question, steps quietly down from the stand, then walks off out of the room.

 

* * *

 

"Annie-"

"I know, I know," Annie says, holding her hands up in mock surrender. She falls back in a chair and pinches the bridge of her nose to quell her throbbing headache.

"Really, Annie, do you? Because I have other PR reps who'd be happy to take your position."

Annie lifts her head and looks at Teddy, who points at a couple of other PR employees at the table's opposite end.

"No offense to them, but really? Really? C'mon, Ted-"

"You're supposed to be good at this."

"I am good at this!" Annie cries, indignant. "I am- I just-"

"Leave her alone, Teddy. She made a mistake. We all do," Venkat says. He gives her a reassuring nod.

"She didn't even make a mistake. She just told the truth," Mitch mutters.

Teddy rubs a hand down his face, and while he does so Annie glances around. She sees Venkat, Mindy perched with her legs crossed in a chair, satellite images covering her lower half, Mitch, and the other PR reps.

"I'm not saying she should lie, I'm saying she should twist her words."

Mindy raises her eyebrows without looking up from her lap, and Venkat snorts.

"So, lie?" Annie prompts.

Teddy groans.

"I'm fine with lying. My job is lying. It's just hard when you're-"

"Your job's supposed to be hard! That's why we hire you to do it!"

"He's going to die, Teddy! He's going to die. I can lie about mechanical failures, I can lie about mission delays, but I challenge you to stand up in front of the whole fucking world every day and lie about a dying man."

Mitch has his face in his hands, and Venkat looks at the floor. Mindy takes a deep, audible breath.

"I'll do it right now: he's not dying."

"Fuck you," Annie murmurs. "Replace me if you want. See if I fucking care. And I said whole world, by the way. Not one stray girl from SatCon, an exhausted PR director, and two higher ups who know he's going to die just as much as you do."

"We're here, too," says one of the other PR reps.

"Yeah, fuck you," Annie says.

Venkat furrows his brow, "Annie...."

"I'm sorry I said fuck you! That better?"

Mindy ruffles her photos and adjusts her position. "Is that- what we're all thinking? He's going to die?"

"Stop- can we stop talking about him dying?" Mitch asks.

"How about we stop this conversation entirely?" Teddy says, making his voice loud and commanding. "Point is, Annie, just watch your mouth when you're on national TV. Networks are already pushing this whole 'final goodbyes' theory. We don't need more chaos than we already have on our hands, understood?"

Annie sighs. "Sure. Yeah. Whatever."

"More pressing matters... Mindy, what've you got?"

"Nothing," she murmurs. "Same direction. Just... moving along."

"I've got a more pressing matter," Mitch says. "When are we telling the crew?"

"Soon."

"When's soon?"

"I'll let you know when we get there."

"Jesus Christ, Te-"

"I'm trying to keep from losing more astronauts than we have to! Okay? End of discussion."

 

* * *

 

Annie's computer screen lights up. She blinks awake, hopeful because last time she checked he was close. It's an email from Mindy. She opens it and grins.

"Watney at Schiaparelli."

 

* * *

 

Mitch gets the news and promptly decides, fuck it. He'll tell the crew anyway. They deserve to know. The problem is, he doesn't know how to say it. How do you go about saying Your good friend and crewmate isn't actually dead, surprise! We've known about it for months but haven't told you. Also he's probably going to die within the next few months, anyway!

Mitch makes a pained noise and kicks against the desk. Fucking Watney, man. There's no emotional detachment here, because Watney was a friend to him, too. Mark Watney, a good man. Funny as all hell. And the crew loved him. This whole thing just... sucks. There's no scientific word that can live up to the accuracy of sucks.

Mitch looks at the picture of the crew on his desk, at how their faces seem to represent their personalities. He laughs quietly and prepares a small speech.

 

* * *

 

"Astronaut Mark Watney is alive. We've known for several months now but... we didn't tell you, because we felt it would harm the mission. But I'm telling you now, because he's traveled to Schiaparelli and we have reason to believe he's attempting to make contact. I understand you probably have... a lot of questions, and I'm here to answer them if you need me to. Just... take care of yourselves, all right? Let me know if you need anything."

Mitch's words repeat themselves. They become an echo in each one's head.

For a long time, no one speaks. Then Lewis says, "It was my fault," and she's gone. The rest just sit there. Thinking thoughts unspoken and remembering things that make their eyes water.

"He's alive," Martinez says.

Johanssen opens her mouth to say how, but closes it. Not important. The fact is, he's alive. That's it. Take some time to process that before we get into semantics.

"Yeah." Beck nods. He crosses his arms and stares at the screen.

"He...." Johanssen trails off, and looks to Vogel, who sees her looking and seems to get where she's going.

"He is going to Schiaparelli."

"Are we recapping, now? I mean-"

"Chris," Johanssen interrupts.

He takes a deep breath.

"Why- why's he going to Schiaparelli?" Martinez asks.

The ensuing silence is so loaded with questions and unwanted answers not even their quiet cries can penetrate it. They're left with their thoughts and worries.


	5. but you see, i've made up my mind about it

Mark drafts the messages he plans to send his friends and family. He tries and fails, writes them and rewrites them but the words feel so heavy and important and he can't seem to do them justice. He's not writing just any message, he's writing goodbyes, he's writing his final words. These words will be the way he's remembered.

At some point he gives up. Decides to do it when the time comes, because maybe then everything will make sense and the words he needs will fall right into place. Maybe then, his brain free from the feeling of loneliness and cleaned of doubt.

While he lets the solar panels charge, he leans against the rover's side and looks up at the sky. "Hey Mom and Dad," he murmurs, sleep in his voice. "How's Earth?"

He laughs like they told a joke, but his laugh becomes a cough and his muscles ache and his throat stings. "I love you both. So much. I just... love you. Give Apollo a hug for me, okay? A big one. I know she doesn't like hugs and she will probably hiss at you, but she'll have to deal with it just this once."

He curls up as best he can in his suit and looks at the sky. "I love you," he says again. "You won't care what I write. I've never been very good at.... You know I love you, right? Even if it sucks, which it will, because this- this is so hard. Fuck."

He traces his name in the sand. "I have more to write. Johanssen, Martinez, Beck, Lewis, Vogel. I love you guys, too. Martinez... if you could see me now, man, you'd make fun of me for months. That's the benefit of being on Mars by myself, I guess. You don't get to annoy me anymore."

He allows himself to close his eyes and think of the letters he'll write his friends. The morbidity of it all hits him. He's going to die, that's a fact, as sure as Mars is red he's going to die. He's going to die and here he is cowering by the gutted trailer of rover one thinking of ways to say goodbye. He has to tell his parents he's alive and then that he's dying soon anyway, and how is that fair? They already think he's dead, why break their hearts twice? He's writing disjointed goodbyes to people who have long since moved on. Maybe he should just stay here. He scrunches his face and shakes his head. Just the thought of talking to them makes his chest warm, but it's not fair, he knows that. He should stay here and let everyone keep thinking he's dead because he's dying anyway.

"What do you think?" he asks. "You don't mind if I... I need to talk to someone, or else this whole thing's pointless anyway. You get that, right? It's not fair, I know. I'm fucking selfish. I'm really fucking selfish."

The sky says nothing. He waits a few moments, then murmurs, "Goodnight," just before closing his eyes. Even behind his eyelids there's the vast red nothing of Mars, and as he lies there drifting closer to sleep, the red gets smaller and smaller until there's only a small dot of it right where he's standing and everything else is pitch black. Then a light appears, and it looks close enough to touch. He reaches for it without thinking and falls off the last bit of red into the surrounding darkness. 

 

* * *

 

Log Entry: Sol 165

 

Good news! I found an episode of Happy Days I actually haven't seen. I must have skipped past it the first time, which means I now have something to keep me occupied for the next half hour or so. I'll take what I can get.

Not so good news: I'm pretty sure I twisted my ankle. And by pretty sure I mean 100% sure. I was lifting the solar panels and I was on this sandy incline and I kind of did this thing that's impossible to describe, because Martian gravity is ridiculous, but let's just say I fell and now my ankle is killing me. It feels like someone took my bones out and when they put them back in they did it wrong. So, yeah, it's all red and swollen and it's a good thing I brought pain meds. Let's just hope I don't run out. That would really be the icing on the cake of fun this adventure has been.

In all seriousness, though, being the first Martian explorer has had its moments. You haven't really lived until you've stood on top of a Martian dune and yelled, "I'm king of the world!" I made dirt angels in Martian dirt. I wrote the word 'fuck' with my finger and giggled like a twelve-year-old boy.

Yes, I'm a professional scientist.

But yeah, it's had its moments. Sometimes the horizons are so vast and breathtaking I sit and stare at them for hours. Not that I have anywhere else to go, but you get my point. Other times, though, I cannot emphasize enough how awful it is. Everything's the same every day, red and mountainous and confining, and I'm stuck driving this motorized box all night and near it all day.

Look, all I'm saying is they should name shit after me. The path I'm driving better be marked (ha) down as the Mark Watney Trail. Or something cooler, but I'll let the geniuses as NASA figure that one out. That mountain over there better be named after me, and that crater, and that one, too. I think I'm being pretty reasonable. In fact, petition to change the name of the planet entirely. Mark Watney's Potato Farm, they could call it. Or, if that's too long, they could just call it 'Hellscape'. Not only does it sound cool, but it's accurate.

Not that I don't love Mars. I do, don't get me wrong. I've got a bit of a love-hate relationship going on with this stupid fucking planet.

I'm off to watch Happy Days and down a few more pain pills. My foot looks a bit like a lumpy radish. I'm not sure it'll fit in the suit.

Stay tuned.

 

* * *

 

Mark drives at night and rests during the day. He watches reruns of Happy Days on the rover computer, and sometimes reads books from Johanssen's drive. Lewis has none, and Beck has several, but they're all medical, so Mark reads and rereads Johanssen's weird-ass but intriguing novels.

Once in a while he goes out and sleeps in the dirt.

He's been driving straight ahead for miles, trying not to nod off, when it's time to set up the solar panels again. He unloads them and props them up and then goes to lie down, and that's when he sees it. Schiaparelli. In the distance, sure, but close enough where he can tell that's what he's looking at. For a long moment, he stares. Then he pumps a fist in the air and jumps, ignoring the pain in his ankle and blinking back tears. "Fuck yeah!"

 

* * *

 

Log Entry: Sol 214

 

I can see the fucking MAV! I can see it from here! Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck. My heart's pounding. I'm unashamedly crying.

It's right there! I can't believe after all this time it's right there!

 

* * *

 

Mark takes his hands from the keyboard and keeps driving, the night enveloping him and the rover in darkness but the lights at the head of the rover lead the way to the MAV. His eyes water and tears spill down his cheeks. He can taste their salt on his lips.

He tries to will the rover into going faster, faster, faster.

He can't stop smiling. His lips crack with the effort—he hasn't smiled so genuinely it quite some time.

He thinks of his family and his friends and his crew, and what he wants to say to them. He pictures his mother and father and his dog, Nova, white all over. She used to follow him around while he worked in the garden, always quiet but right there, at his feet. He pictures his crew, Johanssen and Lewis and Martinez and Vogel and Beck. He pictures them separately, then together. He pictures seeing them again and hugging them and being back on Hermes where everything was normal and good.

His smile stays there like it's been made permanent, perched on his face, put there by the MAV, just the sight of it, and the feeling of not being so alone, anymore.

When he pulls to a stop, he fumbles to fasten his suit back on, and proceeds to run as fast as the Martian atmosphere allows to the MAV. His ankle cries but he ignores it, the shooting pains nothing in contrast to the elated feeling in his chest. Words bounce around in his head and he presses the button for the ladder to descend. He puts one foot on it, then another. He starts to climb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i have all the "messages" written and i may or may not have made myself cry. those will probably be two chapters from now, but i'm not totally sure. thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea a few months ago and just got around to writing it! Please feel free to let me know if you liked/disliked it and know new chapters will be random because of my school schedule.


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